It is the hardest thing I've ever done. I mean, I knew it would be hard...everyone said so and I've been around kids enough to at least know it would be hard, but I didn't realize exactly what kind of hard these early days would be. No one tells you how you'll walk around like a zombie, how you'll feel you have nothing intelligent to say to anyone anymore because you can't think straight, how many times a day you'll change outfits, how you might sometimes feel no one appreciates the work you do, the long days and the longer nights.
And yet, there's something about it that makes the hardness, easy.
Something about how deep down inside I know I'm doing the work of God.
Something that means that at the end of the day, when I feel like I've accomplished nothing visible (dirty dishes in the sink, no shower, leftovers for dinner, spit-up on the couch) I know that I've accomplished
one more day of the most precious work anyone could be doing.
You couldn't pay me enough to leave Nicholas and go away to work. I love my job. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Not even for sleeping.
I'm raising a child, you see.
I've got a long ways to go--he's only just barely accomplished growing out of newborn size diapers, creating a sort of
haphazard schedule, and smiling.
But oh those smiles.
Last night I was singing primary songs to Nicholas, my way of begging him to fall asleep. He was watching me with his deep blue eyes. His eyes that seem to soak up the world, taking everything in, memorizing every new sight and face. And as he stared at me, the right corner of his mouth crept upwards until his face was filled with the most beautiful open-mouthed grin I've ever seen. It was gone again as suddenly as it had come, but even that briefest smile melted my heart.
He knows me, I thought. We were communicating, for the first time.
And in that instant I fell head over heels for my beautiful baby boy. Again.